by Graham Smith
A teenage couple walk into view. Hand in hand, they laugh and joke with each other as they move towards the bench. The guy leans into the girl and kisses her cheek.
She takes a playful swipe at him, then moves her head so they can have a proper kiss.
When they break apart, the Watcher sees the girl point at the bench. He hears their whoops and laughter abate as they show respect to the elderly woman on the bench.
A new possibility springs into the Watcher’s mind, causing him to stifle a shout of joy.
He watches as the teens walk towards the bench. With every step they take he releases a prayer they will realise the woman’s slumber is of the permanent variety.
If they do, the possibilities for him will become endless.
29
I curse at the message on my cell and put down the papers I’ve been reading. Of all the times to receive a summons from my mother, this is the worst.
Inept with technology at the best of times, Mother has never gotten the hang of messaging via a cell phone.
Trying to explain to her why texting in capitals is akin to shouting is like trying to educate a tiger on the benefits of a vegan diet.
To her the fact she is perceived as shouting is a good thing. She once told me ‘People react quicker to a shout than a whisper’.
While she’s a loving mother, she is still hard to handle. Now she doesn’t have to work or guard every penny, she fights boredom by having a social circle of women in a similar position.
Neither wealthy nor poor, the group has given her the friends she didn’t have time for in Glasgow. When not raising money for one charity or another, they shop, lunch or just interfere in the lives of their families.
Several times I have received one of Mother’s summonses, only to have one of her friend’s daughters ‘drop in’ while I was there.
There have been many arguments ending in a stalemate. She is left with the knowledge grandchildren won’t be along soon and I’m made to feel inconsiderate and selfish.
Still, despite everything, she is my mother and I love her. The text I’ve received has an urgency, beyond the shouting capitals, which makes it impossible to ignore or defer until later.
I enter her house via the side door. Finding nobody around, I am helping myself to a coffee when a loud voice rings out.
‘Jacob Boulder. Get yer scrawny arse in here right now.’
This isn’t good. Not only has she Sunday named me, the Glaswegian accent she’s worked so hard to lose is as strong as I’ve ever heard it.
I follow her voice to the lounge, where I find her sitting in her usual seat. Instead of being reclined in front of the fifty-inch TV, it is upright and facing the kitchen door.
Mother is even more upright than the chair. Her posture indicates a mixture of anger and worry, the crow’s feet on her face transformed into deep furrows.
‘Sit.’ The sole word is a command not an invitation.
I am getting spooked now. Mother deals with life’s blows in a matter-of-fact way. Drawing from her incredible reserves of inner strength, she tends to meet challenges head on and beats them through sheer force of will.
Combined, her posture, summons and accent tell me she is facing something she doesn’t believe she can conquer.
‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ I hate the concern in my voice but I can’t stop its presence.
‘I’m fine. It’s you who’s ill.’
‘Me?’ I start to laugh as relief courses through my body. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘There bloody well must be. Otherwise you wouldna be chasing after thon killer.’
To hear Mother swear is a rarity. Only in times of consternation or extreme sorrow will she permit a strong curse to pass her lips. Her accent has returned not just to Glasgow, but direct to the Govan estate where she’d spent her life before moving to Casperton. In her current state of agitation she looks and sounds just like my grandmother. In the interests of family harmony I don’t inform her of the fact.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Is it no’? Explain it then. Stop an auld woman from worrying about her only son. Stop her fretting that the only chance she’s got o’ becoming a granny is hell bent on getting his sel’ killed.’
‘Enough!’ I raise my voice enough to shock her into silence. I need to stop her nonsense before she gathers a head of steam. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether. You may even have the wrong stick.’
There is no point denying my search for Kira’s killer as she’s obviously heard who hired Alfonse and me.
‘Don’t you be raising your voice at me, young man.’ A knobbly finger points at me. ‘C’mon then. Tell me which stick I should have a hold of and which end.’
I try to play down my involvement as her concerns aren’t groundless. ‘Kira Niemeyer’s father hired Alfonse to look into her death. I’m helping out, that’s all.’
‘So it’s no’ just your own life you’re risking, you’re also putting the life of the best friend you e’er had in danger too.’
This is impossible; once she has an idea in her head it’s easier to move a sleeping elephant than convince her she’s wrong.
‘Settle down. We’re looking into a few leads and are working in full cooperation with the police. If we find a suspect, we’ll hand them over to the police and keep well out of it. We’re not stupid, so don’t treat me as if we are.’
‘So now you’re working with the police. Brilliant. Don’t they have guns?’ A liver-spotted hand slaps her forehead. ‘Of course they do. What have you got? Let me tell you what you’ve got. You’ve a reputation as a hard man, who fights for the fun o’ it. Tell me, Mr Don’t-You-Worry, what do you think this killer is going to do if you happen to confront him? Or get too close to him?’
I don’t have an answer for her. At least not one that will give her the reassurance she craves.
‘Don’t just sit there like a big stookie. Tell me you’re gonna stop this nonsense right away.’
I have to fight to keep my tone reasonable. Raising my voice to her levels will only result in a shouting match that benefits nobody. ‘I’m not going to stop anything. I’ll make sure I don’t put myself in danger, but there’s no way I’m going to stop.’
What I don’t say is that finding Kira’s killer has become personal. If she learns about Kira’s obsession with me she’ll start proclaiming it’s all my fault and that I’ll be the next to be killed.
‘I knew you’d say that. You’ve always been the same, Jake. You’re as stubborn as your bloody father. I’ve lost count of the times you’ve cut yer nose off to spite yer face. You never know when to back off and let it go.’
Try as you might, there’s very little you can hide about your nature from your mother. Mine knows me better than any other human alive and has enough about her to look at me with honesty. To see the real me.
I smile to try and diffuse her anger. A little flattery goes a long way with her. ‘I’m just like my mother. I have all her best qualities.’
‘Aye. An’ you’ve got a lot of bad ones from your faither.’ She isn’t smiling back but I can tell she’s softening.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to tackle a killer.’
‘Perhaps not. But you’ve got the MacDonald temper on you. What I’m afraid of is you getting yourself into a situation you can’t fight your way out of.’ She holds a hand out to forestall my protests. ‘That’s why I’m giving you this.’
She opens the handbag on the table to her left and pulls out a gun, which she proffers to me.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m making sure you have the means to look after yoursel’. You’re too pig-headed to listen to me, so I’m giving you this so you can get yourself out of the trouble I know you’re going to attract.’
‘Here.’ I give her the gun back. ‘I don’t know the first thing about guns. Beyond an air rifle I’ve never held one let alone pulled a trigger. I
’ll be more likely to shoot myself than anyone else.’
She pushes her hands into her lap and leaves me standing with my arm outstretched. ‘Don’t be a fool, Jake. You don’t have to be a good shot. You might not even have to fire it. The idea is you have it so you can protect yourself. I don’t want you to go to jail any more than I want you to get hurt.’
I bring my hand back; the gun still rests in my palm. I give it a proper look for the first time – see the name Ruger. It looks small in my hand. Taking care not to point it at my mother, I try holding it properly. It is lighter than I expect a gun to be and despite looking small, it’s a good fit for my hand.
‘There’s a safety catch where your thumb is. I suggest you go out into the hills somewhere and fire a few shots, familiarise yourself with it.’
That’s the only thing she’s said to me today that I may pay attention to.
Her hand dips into the handbag and re-emerges holding two clips and a belt holster. ‘You’re allowed to carry it as long as it’s unloaded and not concealed.’
‘What about a permit?’ I am showing my ignorance, but guns have never held any thrall for me, therefore I’ve never bothered to find out about them.
‘You don’t need one.’
When Mother gets up and goes to the kitchen, I sink back into the seat trying to get my head round the surreal conversation we’ve just had. Not only have I just been given a gun by my mother, but it has been handed to me in a room crowded with porcelain ornaments and some of the chintziest fabrics known to man.
Her concern is touching in one way and insulting in another. Is she afraid for me due to a mother’s love or because she doesn’t trust me to keep myself safe?
Either way, I now have a gun I don’t want and am not sure I could use if the need should arise. Cracking a few heads is one thing. Pulling a trigger requires a whole different outlook.
By the time she returns with two steaming mugs of coffee, I’ve decided to take her advice and fire a few shots in the hills where nobody can get hurt and then stow the gun in the trunk of my car.
‘Now that’s dealt with, I want you to tell me why you’ve started seeing Dr Edwards.’
‘Isn’t what’s said between a psychiatrist and his patients confidential?’
‘Of course it is. But I’m your mother. Do you think so little of me that I’m not curious as to why after years of trying to persuade you to see him, you all of a sudden become his patient?’
‘I’m not seeing him for my own benefit.’
‘Then whose benefit is it for? I can scarcely believe you’re going for my benefit.’
I don’t give her the answer she is after. It’ll be less damning if she works it out for herself.
‘If you didn’t go to see Dr Edwards to talk about yourself… you were seeing him about someone else.’ She pauses as the cogs of her mind turn another revolution. ‘He won’t disclose anything about his patients, so you must have been using him as a consultant.’
I nod.
‘How can you do this to me, Jake? How can you use the man who knows everything about me and my fears like some reference book? Don’t you realise how this makes me feel?’ She pauses her tirade long enough to take a breath and reload her ammunition. ‘I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel sullied and humiliated by the way you’ve crept around behind my back discussing homicide with my therapist. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak to him again.’
This response is typical of her narcissism. I’ve had enough years of it to know how to deal with her though. So I go straight for the jugular and start asking her questions she can’t answer without tying herself in knots.
‘Don’t you think Kira’s killer should be caught?’
‘Of course I do. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘Do you think Farrage and his buddies are up to the job?’
‘No.’ She is hesitant now, suspicious of where I’m steering the conversation.
‘So you agree me and Alfonse are the Niemeyer family’s best hope when it comes to finding the killer?’
‘No!’ The word carries enough vehemence to start a war. ‘They’re rich enough to fly in a private eye who has experience in catching killers. You know, the ex-cop type of guy.’
‘Do you think such a guy would do better than us with our local knowledge?’
‘I don’t care whether or not someone else could do the job. My cares are with you. How am I gonna become a granny if you go and get yourself killed?’
I let that barb slide as I’m happy to let her score the odd point; she’s about to lose the argument and we both know it.
‘We’ve taken the case and we’re working it. I consulted Dr Edwards because you have repeatedly told me he is the best in Casperton. You do think we should have the best help available, don’t you?’
‘You know I only want the best for you.’
‘That’s why I went to Dr Edwards. He’s the best. Your words.’ I leave it there and say my goodbyes, with Mother firmly hoisted by her own petard.
30
I pull a can of soda from Alfonse’s fridge and sit opposite him at his kitchen table. I can tell he’s annoyed and frustrated by the way his normal jocularity is missing. It isn’t just that he’s all business, it is the way he’s carrying himself. The scowl on his face is also something of a clue as to the lack of progress he’s endured today.
He tells me everything he’s achieved today. Listening, I can feel his anger transferring itself to me. Every possible lead or clue he’s pursued has either been verified or resulted in a dead end.
‘I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere.’
‘You’ve achieved a lot. If nothing else you’ve eliminated a number of suspects.’ My words may be the truth, but I recognise their hollowness.
‘So what have you learned?’
‘Little more than you. To sum it up, I’d say I’ve learned Kira was playing those guys she was seeing. That she was obsessed with me. I also found out my mother knows more about guns than I do.’
‘What?’
I give him a condensed version of the visit I’d had with Mother. I can tell from his face he doesn’t know whether to laugh at me or share her concerns.
‘So what did you do with the gun?’
‘I left it in my car. Which is where it’s going to stay.’
He nods his approval.
What I don’t say is the gun will never be more than a hundred yards from me. At the same time, it won’t be at my side, inviting me to use it for all the wrong reasons.
‘So where do we go from here?’
I can’t give him a ready answer as I’m not sure myself. Everything we’ve learned has led us into an end so dead there isn’t enough room to turn around and come back.
His look at the digital lives of Chalmers, Upson and Lester has turned up nothing at all.
He’d called Emily to establish Kira’s time of death. She’d told him a time which was four hours after Upson had flown out of SLC airport. Even if Emily was out by a couple of hours there was no way he could have murdered Kira and still made his flight after a two-hour drive. And he did make his flight.
Like the detective he is, Alfonse had checked this fact as soon as he’d learned of its existence. He’d called Upson’s cell and had put to him much the same questions I’d asked Lester and Chalmers. Alfonse got the same answers I did. This is a shame as far as the investigation goes. Upson is an easy fit as the murderer. Him working as a butcher would give him access to many sharp knives and the knowledge of how to use them.
However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned assisting Alfonse, it’s that the simple option is almost never the real solution. Anything that involves human beings will always turn out to be messier and way more complicated than it ever needs to be.
Nothing in the digital records for the three men has shown up anything untoward. None of them is sitting on a pile of money. There are no convictions for assault. No grievances raised against them in the local courts. In
essence they are a bunch of guys who’d happened to date the same girl.
What makes everything more interesting is the girl’s behaviour with each of them and with me.
I got that she was playing it cool with me. What I don’t get is why she bothered seeing those guys at all.
The hooking would satisfy any sexual needs she had and even if it didn’t, there are more than enough sex toys in her basement to make up for the lack of a man in her life. Companionship is out, as she kept her dates at arm’s length. They weren’t invited back to her house, asked to meet her parents or any of the usual stuff that happens in a relationship.
Instead they were picked up and discarded at will with the casual indifference a child has for a less than favourite toy.
None of the three had stood a chance of ever getting close to her, of forming a bond that would last through the decades. Even the priggish Chalmers had recognised his relationship with Kira for what it was.
Try as I might, I just can’t figure out why Kira was seeing them. At least not until I pull out Alfonse’s folder and go through the pages copied from her journal.
No wonder he is laying off with the wisecracks. There is some whacked out stuff on these pages.
Tough as they are to read, I go through them a second time.
Some part of my subconscious is aware of Alfonse moving around trying not to disturb me. I also know he’s keeping an eye on me as I read.
When I am finished my second pass, I get up and pace around the room. My boots sending out a metronomic beat on the laminate flooring as the movement helps me digest what I’ve just read.
Alfonse hands me another soda and takes the crushed remains of the first can from my hand.
‘Well?’
I shrug. I’m not yet able to organise my thoughts into a coherent sentence. It’s not every day you get to read the obsession-fuelled notes of your stalker.
